The Castle of Kings

by Oliver Pötzsch

  “We have a whole arsenal of firearms,” replied Jockel coolly. “This is just a looted weapon that we’re trying to make serviceable again, isn’t that so, Mathis?”

  It was such an audacious lie that Mathis almost laughed. In reality, they had three arquebuses and one rusty culverin. Calling that collection an arsenal verged on megalomania. Mathis frowned. Over the last few months his admiration for the leader of the Wasgau peasants had turned increasingly into distrust. Jockel, who wanted to see all kings overthrown, was acting like one himself.

  “You’re welcome to stand here instead of me, blowing up the fire, Master Smith,” Ulrich Reichhart growled at the village mayor before him. “Then we’ll see if you can do better. Or I could always reshape your nose.”

  Shepherd Jockel raised his hands in a mollifying gesture. “No quarreling here. These men bring good news.” He paused for dramatic effect before going on in a loud voice. “The peasants of Dahn and Wilgartswiesen have risen at last. They are on their way here to join our band. And there’s unrest down in Landau as well. The fight can begin at last.”

  Mathis looked up in surprise. This was indeed good news. “How many of you are there?” he asked the village mayor.

  “A hundred, maybe a dozen more,” replied the man solemnly. “And new recruits are arriving every day. The harsh winter and famine have done their work. The peasants are determined not to put up with the injustices of the gentry any longer.”

  Beside Mathis, Shepherd Jockel rubbed his hands together with satisfaction. “The time has come at last,” he cried. “Aha, Mathis, and you doubted it. Isn’t that so? I could see that you doubted. Well, who’s right now?”

  “Nonsense,” growled Mathis. He pushed his hair back from his forehead, which bore a scar as long as a finger; it was all that was left of his injuries from the battle for the Ramburg, and it made him look fiercer than before. He did not like it when Jockel spoke to him in that tone. He was coming to feel that the hunchbacked shepherd regarded him as a rival. His own reputation in the camp had grown during the last few months, and there was now a self-confidence about him that could often silence even men older than he was.

  “When can your people be here?” Mathis asked the envoy from Dahn.

  “In about a week’s time. We’re just waiting for the anxious and undecided to join us. Messengers are going from hamlet to hamlet, and meanwhile we are hiding in the forest.” The village mayor smiled. “The duke has set a price on my head—but so have we set a price on his.”

  “We’ll need a new camp,” Mathis pointed out. “This clearing is too small. We’ll have to build more huts and chop down trees for firewood, or half the men will be frozen before we even go into battle.”

  The village mayor looked thoughtful. “Well, it may not come to that at all,” he began, with some hesitation.

  “What do you mean?” Jockel demanded. “Speak up.”

  “They say that in Memmingen, in Swabia, the peasants and the nobility have been talking together. The Baltringen Band, the Allgäu Band, and the Lake Constance Band were all represented by their leaders. The noblemen will go along with our demands.” The man handed Jockel a crumpled sheet of printed paper. “Here, this is being distributed all over the empire. It talks sense. Tithes will be abolished, we’ll be able to choose our own parish priests, and hunting will be allowed again.”

  Jockel took the paper; frowning, he examined the lines of small print. He had taught himself to read during the long days and nights herding his flock of sheep, but it was obviously still difficult for him. However, woe betide anyone who made fun of him for that. As Jockel read, moving his lips, silence reigned. Finally he looked up. His fingers moving fast, he tore the document to pieces that fell slowly to the ground, mingling with the snowflakes.

  “Nothing but empty promises,” he replied defiantly. “They butter us up and send us back to our hovels, only to fleece us even more thoroughly later.” He turned to the bystanders, among whom his two bodyguards nodded more vigorously than anyone. “They’re scared. That’s what this talk of negotiations tells us. Those fine gentlemen are shitting their hose—the abbots, the knights, the counts, all of them. Now, of all times, we mustn’t give way by as much as an inch.”

  “But suppose they really do want to negotiate?” Mathis asked.

  Jockel looked at him sardonically. “Is that what you believe? Do you believe they’d voluntarily give up their sinecures and their tithes?”

  “Not all of them, for sure. But we ought to at least listen to what they have to say.”

  “Ho, of course!” Jockel laughed contemptuously. “Go to Memmingen in Swabia and listen. Let them lull you into a sense of security while they assemble their landsknechts.” He lowered his voice to a confidential tone. “They need time, Mathis, don’t you understand that? Too many of the imperial soldiers are still fighting in Italy. The nobility negotiate while they’re already planning our downfall behind our backs. But we’re not taking any of that. We’re not silly, innocent little lambs to be led to the slaughter. We’re fighting men, and we will win!”

  More and more peasants had come over to them from the campfires, curious to know what was going on. The bodyguards pushed a few who were coming too close to their leader away. Here and there someone cheered.

  “We must send out a signal,” Jockel cried, turning to the crowd. “We must show those moneybags, those dukes and abbots, that we’re not being taken in. Let’s show the allies who will soon be here what we’re made of. Are you ready for that?”

  The men shouted approval, first hesitantly, then louder and louder, and Jockel, his eyes burning, went on, “Then let’s burn down Eusserthal monastery! The fat clerics there have been a thorn in our side for too long. This part of the country needs just one spark to light the fire, and Eusserthal will be that spark. We’ll prepare a fitting welcome for our friends. A monastery as the headquarters of a band of peasants. The church can be our stable, and the abbot’s wine cellar our tavern. How do you like the sound of that?”

  The crowd laughed and hooted. Many men held up their spears and scythes, making a field of spikes that waved in the wind and filled the whole forest clearing.

  “Three cheers for Shepherd Jockel! Three cheers!” they cried, and their leader, satisfied, nodded. Then he glanced at Mathis, and a slight smile flitted over his face.

  “That’s what you wanted, Mathis, didn’t you?” he said, speaking more calmly now. “A sheltered place for our future army. Thank you for giving me the idea. If you go on like that, I’ll make you my deputy yet.”

  Briefly, Mathis closed his eyes. There was no point in turning to the crowd again now. Even the initially skeptical envoys from Dahn and Wilgartswiesen had joined in the general rejoicing. By getting his word in first, Jockel had quickly regained the leadership that, for a moment, had threatened to slip from his grasp.

  Eusserthal monastery, unlike the castles in its neighborhood, would be easy both to capture and to defend. It would offer them shelter, and its conquest would be a clear signal to the country round about that battle had begun. And wasn’t that, after all, what Mathis wanted?

  But then Mathis thought of all the monks there. Abbot Weigand might be a swine, but what about kindly Brother Jörg in the gatehouse? In the old days, Mathis had often brought him new horseshoes for the monastery’s two horses. What about the many young novices? At least Father Tristan would be safe at Trifels Castle, thought Mathis, and gave a sudden start.

  Or will we soon be attacking Trifels, too? And then, what about Agnes?

  “Death to the prelates, down with the palaces!” The clearing echoed to the shouting of the crowd. Even old Ulrich Reichhart had joined in. Only Mathis remained silent.

  He brought his hammer down on the iron of the gun, which at last was red-hot, while Shepherd Jockel scrutinized him distrustfully.

  The next day, Friedrich von Löwenstein-Scharfeneck stood on the edge of the well in the Trifels well tower, looking down at the dark hole before his fe
et. Deep below him there was a bubbling, rushing sound, a distant cry, and then two guards turned a squealing winch. After a while a man appeared out of the darkness of the well shaft, tied to a long rope and wearing nothing but a loincloth. He was shivering hard, coughing, and spitting out mucus and water.

  “Well?” Scharfeneck asked impatiently. “Find anything?”

  The man shook his head, spraying water in all directions, like a wet dog. “Nothing, Your Grace. I searched the whole of the bottom of the well with my hands, there’s stones there, old pieces of wood, a few rusty kreuzers, but that’s all, I swear, God be my witness.”

  “Then keep searching, damn it all! There must be something down there. All the written records suggest it.”

  “Please, my lord,” croaked the man, one of Friedrich’s close circle of soldiers. He was still shivering with cold. “I’m frozen to the marrow. And it’s dark as hell down there. The Devil only know what monsters may be . . .”

  His voice died away as his two comrades went back to work, winding the winch the other way, and the soldier, gesticulating wildly, slowly disappeared into the depths. It was obvious that the two guards wouldn’t have changed places with their friend even for a year’s wages.

  “Does he have to do this?” asked Agnes, who was leaning against the wall of the little shelter above the well with her arms crossed, watching as the outline of the poor guard grew smaller and smaller as he went down. “He’s already been searching the well for ages. This is the fourth time you’ve sent him down. It must be well over two hundred feet down to the groundwater. Much more of this, and he’ll freeze to death on you.” She pointed to the dripping icicles hanging from the winch. A thaw had begun to set in during the last couple of days, but nonetheless it was still bitterly cold, even at midday and in bright sunlight.

  “How often do I have to tell you not to interfere in my business?” Friedrich snapped. “And what do you know about it, anyway? I’ve been studying this castle for years. The well tower is one of the oldest buildings at Trifels. It was erected just after Emperor Henry VI brought the Norman treasure here. There couldn’t be a better hiding place.”

  “If the treasure really is hidden somewhere here,” Agnes said sharply. “But I for one am more and more inclined to believe it’s just a legend, like so much about Trifels.”

  “Believe what you like, but spare me your chatter, woman.” The count turned to the two smirking guards, who had not refrained from listening to this marital disagreement. “And as for you two, I’ll soon wipe that stupid grin off your faces,” Friedrich threatened. “If your friend comes back up again without good news next time, then we’ll bale out the well. That’ll give you something else to think about.”

  One of the guards answered, horrified. “But Your Grace, no one knows how much water there is down there. It could take weeks.”

  “We’ll do it even if it takes an eternity!” the count shouted. “That accursed treasure must be somewhere.”

  Sighing, Agnes left her husband alone in the tower and crossed the ramshackle bridge to the castle courtyard. From the battlements, she looked at her new home, nearby Scharfenberg Castle, now attractively plastered in red and white. There was a kind of armistice between the young count and his wife. When they were alone, Friedrich was quite likely to accept the suggestions that Agnes made. In that way, she had made sure that not just Scharfenberg but Trifels, too, profited from the renovations. Now and then the count could even be good company. He sent to Speyer for books for her, and he did not forbid her either to go hawking or to wear the hose in which she felt comfortable when riding.

  Yet Agnes never forgot that it had been Friedrich von Löwenstein-Scharfeneck who had callously murdered her father. He was unscrupulous in his pursuit of power and fanatical on some subjects, notably the legendary Norman treasure. Sometimes it seemed to her that Friedrich’s obsession was tipping over into madness. It was a long while since that she, too, had believed that Emperor Henry had hidden part of the loot from his wars somewhere here. Presumably the money had simply been squandered in the course of time.

  On the spur of the moment, she decided to pay a visit to the guards Gunther and Eberhart. She had not been to Trifels for some time. As usual, the two men-at-arms, wrapped in their threadbare woolen coats, were sitting on the stairs to the upper bailey. When they saw Agnes, they jumped to their feet and stood at attention.

  “Welcome . . . welcome, my lady,” stammered Gunther, bowing low. “It’s good to see you.”

  Agnes smiled. She remembered how these same men used to tell her off not so many years ago.

  “That’s all right, Gunther,” she replied. “Don’t bow too low—it won’t do your old bones any good. Tell me how things are here at the castle instead.”

  “The bones of Trifels are considerably older than mine,” the guard replied, grinning. “But it’s good for the castle that someone’s taking a little care of it.” Suddenly, however, his expression grew more serious. “All the same, it’s not like the old days, when your worthy father was alive.”

  Agnes nodded. To these men, Philipp von Erfenstein had died of gangrene. Only she and Father Tristan knew what had really happened, and she felt hatred of her husband rise in her again.

  I ought to poison him as he poisoned my father, she thought. I just don’t have the courage to do it.

  The two men-at-arms were looking at her, baffled, and Agnes realized that it was some time since she had said anything. “I’ll go and make sure that all is well indoors,” she finally said, hesitantly, so as not to confuse the men any more. “I think I feel a little homesick.”

  “Of course, my lady. You still know your way around, don’t you?”

  “Better than I know my own heart,” she said sadly.

  Bowing again, the guards stepped aside, and Agnes climbed the steps to the upper bailey. Once there, she entered the tower. As if some inner urge were guiding her, her steps led her to the library door on the fourth floor. It was weeks since she had last been here. When she pressed the handle of the door, it swung open without a sound. The smell of old parchment, dust, and yellowing paper received her like an old friend. Her glance moved over the many rows of books and scrolls in the shelves along the walls. Dreamily, she closed her eyes. How often she had sat by the stove here, reading, and forgetting the world around her. She thought of Father Tristan, and a sharp pang of nostalgia rose in her. She hadn’t seen her father confessor for weeks.

  Aimlessly, Agnes went over to one of the shelves and stroked the spines of individual books. Friedrich had taken the chronicle of Trifels to Scharfenberg Castle with him, as well as several other works that he thought would tell him more about the Norman treasure. All the same, there was still enough here for anyone to read on many long winter nights. She wondered whether to take a few of the books back to Scharfenberg herself.

  Suddenly Agnes remembered the banned books of Martin Luther and Philipp Melanchthon, and the secret compartment where Father Tristan used to keep them. Had her husband discovered it yet? She looked for the secret wooden spine, pulled it out, and the little hidden flap opened to show the space behind it.

  The niche was empty.

  Agnes frowned. If Friedrich had found those forbidden books, he would surely have welcomed that as a reason to get rid of the old monk—and she would have heard about it. So it was more likely that Father Tristan himself had destroyed the books or maybe taken them to Eusserthal with him. She leaned to look farther into the space, felt its dusty base again, and suddenly her fingers touched a scrap of parchment. When she took it out into the light, she saw that it was of the same consistency as the parchment pages that had been removed from the chronicle of Trifels. As Agnes recollected, several pages had been torn out. Could this be a piece of one of them?

  The scrap was not much larger than her thumb, and charred at the edges. Only a few words could still be made out on it. Agnes held it close to her eyes so that she could read them better in the dim light of the library.
r />   Ioannes et Constanza fugae se mandabant . . .

  “Johann and Constanza took flight,” she quietly murmured.

  Agnes felt her heart beat faster. Johann was clearly Johann of Brunswick, who had featured so often in her dreams. And Constanza? Agnes thought of her own feelings during the dreams, of the love she had felt for Johann. They had not been her own emotions, but those of a woman through whose eyes Agnes experienced her dreams.

  Constanza . . .

  At last she knew her name. Breathing hard, Agnes closed her eyes and tried to remember everything that she had dreamed since finding the ring. The woman called Constanza had obviously met Johann of Brunswick when he was dubbed a knight at Trifels Castle. According to the chronicle of the castle, that had been in 1293. The two of them became lovers and had a child, but something stood between them. Something that, in some way, had to do with the ring that Constanza carried with her. Had Johann really been plotting against the Habsburg king Albrecht, or had that just been an excuse to get rid of him and Constanza? When the little family fled from Trifels, Constanza had been carrying something wrapped in a cloth. What, for heaven’s sake, had happened then?

  Agnes remembered what Father Tristan had told her about the missing pages.

  Someone probably wanted that dark chapter to be forgotten forever . . .

  The monk had thought at the time that the Guelph, Johann of Brunswick, had been captured and killed in Speyer during his attempt to escape. But that was not the whole truth. Johann and Constanza had fled from Trifels together.

  Lost in thought, Agnes felt the crumpled scrap of parchment. What had happened to that woman? And why did she keep thinking of her? Why had the pages been torn out of the book? Why . . .

  Realization hit her like a blow.

  Father Tristan had claimed that the pages had been torn out long ago. But the forgotten scrap in the secret compartment suggested a very different interpretation: he himself had removed the missing chapter.